Accident One Year Later
by Simon920
Summary: One year after Dick Grayson is killed in a car accident his friends and family are still adjusting. Warning: some strong language and suggestion off screen of nongraphic underage, consentual sex.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Accident. One Year On. Part 1 of 2

Author: Simon

Characters: Bruce/Alfred/ the Bat Family

Rating: PG, I guess. Some language.

Summary: Sequel to Accident. One year after Dick was killed in a car accident

Warnings: none, really, a little language but not much

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. to Char for the legal stuff—any mistakes are all mine, not hers. And much thanks to Scott for beta—any mistakes are all mine and ones he probably told me to fix.

**Accident**

**One Year On**

Alfred walked through the dining room back into the kitchen. The plate he was carrying was essentially untouched, as it often was nowadays, and he was close to despair as what to do about it. The conversation had been the same as it always was now; "Master Bruce, I've prepared the chicken exactly as you always request it."

"Thank you, Alfred, but I'm not really hungry. Maybe I'll have something later, if that's all right."

The master had, well, he had seemed to be coming around the last few months but then, a few weeks ago with the anniversary getting close, had simply retreated back to where he'd been after Dick's death last year. At first they had all been engulfed in grief and the usual everyday things had either stopped, become unimportant or been delegated away. Master Bruce had only gone into the office sporadically, doing only what was essential and even then only through the computer, messengers or by having Lucius Fox come out to the house with whatever was deemed too vital to be handled by anyone other than the CEO himself. All social appearances stopped, of course, as did all pretense of being the playboy of the nation. He had gone to ground, as it were, but people were sympathetic and no one criticized Bruce for months, the young man had died right there in front of him. Now there was a feeling that he was wallowing in his grief too much, that he was enjoying it in some perverse way and it was time—past time—for him to pull himself together.

It was the same at every party and dinner Bruce missed. The ladies would whisper to one another while shaking their heads.

"Yes, it was sad, of course, tragic really, but it wasn't as if the boy was his own flesh and blood, for goodness sake. He wasn't even legally adopted so how much did he really mean, when you came down to it."

"It was so good of Bruce to take the poor thing in after his parents were killed the way they were—you'd do as much for a cat, wouldn't you?—but to carry on like this…"

"Heavens, and that child's room—good lord—Bruce hasn't even allowed the sheets on the bed to be changed and they're positively stiff with blood!" This would usually be followed by a polite shudder.

Under his direct orders, the room had been left exactly as it had been that last night when Dick had been wheeled out on an ambulance gurney, bleeding, in pain, frightened and essentially dead. Bruce hadn't even allowed the strewn clothes or the wrappings from the medical tubes and needles to be picked up. Nothing was to be changed. It would be kept exactly as it was because—because, if the room was cleaned out or turned back into a guest room it would be erasing Dick's imprint, the fact he'd been there, and he wouldn't allow that to happen.

The gossip would then usually move on just a bit, "That place is being turned into some kind of ghoulish shrine and even dear Alfred seems to have no way around it. It's a little sick, if you ask me, and the man really should be getting professional help. He really should."

"You know, any number of the ladies, along with a few of the men from what I hear, would have been more than willing to help if they could. Really, all he has to do was call."

"From what I hear, a few have tried, but Bruce always has Alfred thank them for him—the man won't eve come to the door!—and then just sends them away. It's so rude. I mean, we're just trying to help, after all."

"And that's another thing; Bruce really has changed. Well, yes, of course something like this would affect anyone, but he's simply stopped going out and can you remember the last time you've seen him dancing at one of the clubs?"

"And he's so serious you'd think you were talking to a complete stranger. Well, if you can get him to say two words, that is. The rumor was that he even paid attention at those endless Board meetings at his various companies, for goodness sake. Why, he asked questions Benjy said were 'incisive' and 'probing' and actually listened to the answers. It was almost like he was a different man."

"And he shows up—on time, no less, if you can believe it!—dressed impeccably as always, supposedly makes real decisions regarding this and that then simply goes home—alone. Unless he has something going on locked behind closed doors, that is."

"Yes, well, with any luck, he'd get past this and things will be back to normal where they belong."

"And did you hear that a number of people flowers to the house to mark the anniversary? From what I was told, Alfred simply loaded them into the van and took them over to the local hospital. He said 'the master' wouldn't want to look at them." The ladies rolled their eyes, shook their heads and changed the subject to the upcoming fashion week and which shows they'd be attending. Poor Brucie.

Batman flew, though. He flew and patrolled and made more arrests and solved more unsolvable crimes that even Alfred would have thought possible if he hadn't been through this once before. Years ago, when the old master and mistress had been killed, Bruce had thrown himself into work like this—though he'd only been a child, he'd begun to devote himself to his self-imposed life sentence. Now, with the death of the young man who was his son in all but blood, he was doing the same thing. He seemed to be doing anything to avoid the empty rooms, especially the empty room down the hall.

Bruce had talked about it with Leslie, once, and then never allowed the subject to be brought up again. "Dick didn't survived the trip to the hospital or even, really out the front door and I knew that but I kept thinking someone could do something. He was pronounced dead on arrival when we got to the ER."

The boy had been killed by a small blood clot caused by the trauma of the car accident, torn loose and finally stopping his heart. A pulmonary embolism, that was what it was called, though the name didn't really matter. What mattered was that the light had gone from the manor; the darkness Bruce had hidden himself in as a child was back and darker, denser than it was twenty years ago. For nearly ten years Dick had laughed and kept what they did in perspective, balancing the good fight with pizza and bad jokes and music played too loud.

Now they had the quiet back and with the quiet they had the dark. Bruce never spoke about the ride in the ambulance and Alfred only knew that he'd held Dick's hand as he died because one of the paramedics had told him that night.

"Sir, please. I must ask you to eat something." He'd brought a tray with sandwiches down to the cave as he did every evening, placing it next to the keyboard where Bruce was working.

"Thank you. Maybe later, just leave it." Later, of course, wouldn't come as far as the food was concerned and it would be thrown to the dogs, as it was every evening.

* * *

"So has anyone heard from Garth?" Wally opened his bottle of water.

"Arthur told Diana that he's working in Poseidonis and it could be a while before he'll be back on the surface."

Wally just shook his head; things were falling apart without Dick and, try as they did, it seemed to be slipping away from them. Donna was around, sure and he was too when he could get the time away from his uncle, but Roy was always either somewhere else or in such a crummy mood no one wanted to be around him. Plus, he'd become unreliable and that was a pain. He'd say he'd be somewhere and then he wouldn't show up or he'd wander by hours or even days late, daring anyone to make an issue of it.

Dick—Robin—had been the glue holding the Titans together and without him the seams were coming apart and no one knew how to stop it. Wally was starting to think he was the only one it even mattered to and he was beginning to wonder why he still cared.

He also knew through his uncle Barry there had been conversations over at JLA headquarters after that mess with Brother Blood last month and there were some editorials in a few newspapers as well. Not good. This was not good.

"Y'know, I keep thinking; sure, Dick had been—well, he'd been one of a kind but he'd have been the first to tell us to cut the crap, get it together and do our jobs. Enough was enough, right? Suck it up. Everyone's replaceable, including him—he said it and he believed it."

"Wally, it's more than just that and you know it." Donna hated talking about Dick, but once in a while she'd do it if they really had to, like now when they were falling apart.

"I know that was why he used to step back sometimes and make one of the others lead some mission or other. He wanted us to get used to the idea that he wasn't the one and only—even if he was."

"And another problem we're ignoring is that even though we all know Roy is messed up because he blames himself for the accident and even though they all keep telling him it was just an accident and no one ever says anything different to his face, the truth is that we all blame him and he knows it."

Donna knew he was right. "But his staying away doesn't help, everything just festers."

"Well, he was driving. He was going too fast and he was the one who'd lost control and hit the tree. Dick was just along for the ride and if Roy felt bad, yeah, well, y'know—Dick isn't feeling much of anything, is he?" Wally had this recurring mental picture too often—something would trigger a train of thought about Dick and he'd start thinking about how it had been almost a year now, just short of twelve months since Dick was buried with his parents and he was probably not looking so good about now.

Sure, Dick had been a handsome guy, no one ever denied that, but after they'd cut him up and taken all those organs Bruce insisted be given to someone who could use them and then after being six feet under for almost a year...he probably wasn't looking so good about now.

"Yeah, well, when you came down to it—it was Roy's fault. He was the one behind the wheel right? Sure we all feel badly for him. Of course we do, but you know what? I feel a whole lot worse for Dick."

Donna didn't say anything to that, she just nodded.

* * *

At St. Patrick's Academy, there had been plans to make some kind of memorial for Dick Grayson. He'd been a good guy, even if he didn't really sign up for anything like sports or clubs like almost everyone else did. Right after the accident there had been a bunch of flowers and a cross left at the tree they'd hit and someone else left a candle that burned for a while. There had been some front-page articles in the papers because there always was when a kid gets killed; especially when his almost father is someone like Bruce Wayne. Jeez, there'd even been mentions in People and the crummy tabloids and all those scuzzy rumors came up again but no one really believed them. Almost no one, anyway. There were always a few kids and their parents who seemed to get off on that kind of stuff.

The kids talked about it for a while at one of the student government meetings a few weeks after Dick had died. A few even gave some thought to what they could do for him; maybe dedicate a bench to him or an annual award or something. Jeez, his sort of father was like one of the richest people on the planet, maybe he'd want to do something for the school in Dick's name or something. Someone else suggested that maybe they could write a letter. After all, hadn't he financed the whole new science wing a few years ago? Sure he had—maybe he'd be good for an annual scholarship or something.

That was as far as it got, though. Dealing with Bruce Wayne was intimidating enough to kill the thought, no pun intended. Besides, one of the kids had seen him driving by and he looked like he was really mad about something so maybe they should just wait until he was feeling better.

The letter never got written. In the spring Dick's class graduated and scattered to college or jobs. Memories of Dick Grayson were relegated to a memorial page in the yearbook about 'the kid who got killed'.

No one was surprised. People forget.

* * *

The JLA meeting was being held, despite the fact that Batman was MIA yet again. The meeting was over and a few of the members were still hanging around, trying to decide what to do about the current internal problem.

"Did he call in?" Arthur was probably the most annoyed, but then he'd never really gotten along with the Bat.

Hal tried to calm things down, yet again—they'd had this same conversation three or four times over the last few months and everyone was getting tired of rehashing the same things. "No, nothing, not directly. Alfred called for him and said he was working on a case."

"We're all working on a case. Look, we know what's going on with him, but the fact is that he's not reliable and you all know he hasn't been for months now. Does anyone have any thoughts about Batman being put on reserve status for now?"

"C'mon, Ollie, cut him some slack, will you? He's still dealing…"

"I know what he's still dealing with, Hal, okay? So am I, but I manage to get my butt here when I'm supposed to."

"Maybe you'd do better to take a leaf out of his book and take care of your own problems instead of ragging on him."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean, Your Majesty? And you and Garth are so friggin close?"

"At least I'd know if he was…ah, forget it. "

"Well?" But Aquaman just walked out; his usual answer when he didn't want to deal. Hal tried again.

"Just—when was the last time you sat down and talked to Speedy about anything other than what he wanted for dinner?"

"The kid is still getting over the fact he was driving the car, okay? He's upset, blames himself. For God's sake, that's not hard to understand, is it?"

"As easy to understand as how he's dealing with it, Arrow."

"Leave it to you to not give a straight answer, Jordon—you have something to say, just friggin say it."

"Hal, Ollie, c'mon, please. Calm down, we can't accomplish anything like this."

"Butt out J'onn. What aren't you telling me, Jordon?"

"Fine. Roy is buying heroin down at the docks at least four times a week—he's a regular and he's probably buying over in the park, too."

"It's for a case."

"Like hell it is. The kid is using and if you'd take a night off from patrolling or your social life you might have noticed." Green Lantern was fed up with Ollie's oblivious attitude about Roy. The ked deserved and needed better than this.

Diana spoke from the other side of the table, almost hesitantly. She knew he'd be hard on the boy. "It's true, Ollie—I confronted him about it last week and he swore he'd tell you; I didn't believe him, but thought I'd at least give him a chance. After he left I found my wallet had been emptied. He took over two hundred dollars from me."

"If you don't deal with it, we'll have to, Arrow, and you know you could still be in for some kind of wrongful death lawsuit. The statute of limitations has a ways to run on that."

"I wasn't even there, Lantern, and idle threats piss me off."

"Nothing idle about it, Ollie—You're Roy's guardian, he's a minor. Bruce Wayne has one of the best legal teams on the planet and your son killed his in a car accident. If I were you, I'd find out what his plans are."

"Roy didn't purposely kill anyone and Dick was one of his best friends. Hell, even the Bat wouldn't put the kid through that, for Christ's sake."

"You willing to bet the ranch?" Ollie stomped out, ignoring J'onn's attempts to calm him down.

The awkward silence was broken by Barry, "Y'know something? I miss Robin hanging around here. He made me laugh—and he made the Bat almost human. He should have gotten a medal just for that."

Green Lantern smiled. Yes he had made people laugh, usually with some incredibly bad joke or series of rapid fire puns, equally bad. I always figured he'd end up a JLA member one of these days." Lantern picked up his stuff, ready to leave. "He sure was a lot more fun than Batman to hang out with."

J'onn had been the one who'd help cover Robin's disappearance last year, impersonating the boy on and off for a few months before Bruce had decided enough time had gone by and organized a press conference with J'onn/Robin and announced that the young man had decided to leave the business to pursue other interests, hinting he'd be going to college and would be too busy with his studies from now on.

* * *

Alfred was starting the Christmas cards for the year, knowing Bruce wouldn't do it but wanting to keep up the standards. Naturally, he knew people would understand a lapse this small, but he wanted to do what he could to maintain life as it should be. Instead of the usual family photo the master had told him to just pick some card and so they had a reproduction of one of Fra Angelica's works with a standard printed message inside. He sat at the kitchen table; teacup filled with Earl Grey and tipped the sherry in to top off the cup as he wrote short messages inside to the various recipients. He'd found lately that it allowed him to sleep more easily and relaxed him. Surprised a little at the level of the liquid in the bottle, he made note that he needed to pick up more in the morning when he was doing his errands.

For a year now, almost a year, he hadn't had a single conversation of consequence with Bruce. He'd tried, Lord knew he'd tried, but the Master would walk away or raise his newspaper or not come home for dinner, anything to avoid talking about what was happening to them. All of Alfred's pleadings that this wasn't what Dick would have wanted, or that he would be upset if he could see this were ignored or cut off time and time again. Alfred, simply out of thoughts as to where to turn next, didn't know what to do—a position he'd rarely ever found himself.

Without Dick, the house was quiet now, as it had been before he'd come to live with them. The music was gone along with the slamming doors. There was, of course, something unnatural about a parent outliving a child, just as it was unnatural for Dick to bury his own parents when he was too young to understand death. And while none of them had ever really learned how to deal with that, Dick probably came closest because he'd figured out how to grieve and then move on. Bruce had never been able to do that, though Dick had helped a lot for a long time.

Now they were back where they'd started twenty years ago and Alfred was terrified that they were losing the ground that wouldn't be recovered this time.

All of the usual Christmas parties, dinners and invitations had been politely refused, all offers to visit over the holidays rejected, all thoughts of merriment shunned. The only function the Master had attended was the annual employees Christmas party and even then he'd merely made a fifteen-minute appearance, wished everyone a happy holiday and safe New Year then left as early as possible.

Alfred started thinking about Christmas' past, Dick pounding on their doors then running down the stairs or sliding down the banister at dawn, the other two following as quickly as they could throw on their robes and catch up to him. As soon as the presents were torn opened the young master would follow Alfred into the kitchen, insisting on helping with stirring the pancake batter while spilling it onto every surface until he was at least twelve. Then he would move on to pouring the hand squeezed juice and making Bruce sit at the kitchen table instead of in the dining room where his early upbringing would show itself. "C'mon, Bruce—put your own plate in the dishwasher, Alf isn't the maid!"

The look on the Master's face had been priceless.

* * *

Leslie was working late, as she tended to do almost every evening at the clinic. She been deeply saddened by Dick's death, arriving at the ER as quickly as she could, but too late to do anything other than lend some minor comfort, knowing it wouldn't help.

She blamed herself, even though she knew she'd done nothing wrong and hadn't been at all neglectful or negligent in any way. It was the sort of injury that could lay dormant for days or even weeks with no symptoms and then, with no warning…

Dick had been one of her special favorites and not just for himself—he'd pulled Bruce out of his funk and turned him into a human being instead of the automaton he was well on his way to becoming. With Dick around Bruce could joke, laugh and interact with people the way she'd wished he would for years. Dick was—as her grandfather would have said—just the tonic Bruce needed. He forced Bruce out of himself and forced the man to care about someone else on a personal level, not just as an anonymous avenger. He'd made Bruce responsible for a child, self sufficient though Dick might have been. Leslie had recognized early that someone like Dick was the only kind of child Bruce could handle, one who was smart, self directed and talented but one who still needed guidance.

And he worshiped Bruce. That was the other thing Bruce needed; to have someone look up to him unconditionally. With Dick's death, Bruce had lost a son, a student and a best friend and now Leslie was terrified that she would lose Bruce as well.

He'd needed the boy more than the boy needed him, if you wanted to know the truth. Dick probably would have thrived in any decent home. Bruce needed someone as unique as Dick to make him human

After the funeral she had pulled Dick's medical records to lock them in the safe. They were too distinctive to be left around and it would be too easy for someone to make the association between the boy and a character like Robin if they were looking.

Flipping idly through the pages she'd stopped at an ultrasound from a different patient, about three months pregnant that Dick had slipped into his file one night after hours when he'd been brought in for some minor problem. Without batting an eye, she'd told him it was twins and to make sure he remembered his prenatal vitamins every morning, handing him a prescription.

The running joke about his morning sickness lasted for years.

* * *

"Batman, stop." It was an imperative command but gently spoken almost into his ear. He knew who it was, but ignored the order, his fist continuing to pound again into the stomach of the thief he'd run down.

His hand was stopped in mid-air and he turned to see Superman holding it as gently as you'd hold a full-blown dandelion to prevent it from blowing away.

"That's enough. Stop."

The Bat looked like the next punch would be at Superman himself, but relented and relaxed his arm enough to have it released, and then lowered it. The robber, a minor offender at best, was too frightened to run but momentarily semi-ignored as the two heroes took one another's measure with neither seeming to give an inch. Coming to a private decision, Batman cuffed the man and spoke into some kind of com link, requesting back up to apprehend a subdued suspect. A short time later, with the man taken away, the two men talked.

"If I needed your help I would have asked for it."

"Br—Batman, we've been friends' Batman raised his eyebrow at that but Kal went on. "Friends for a long time and this has to stop now."

"As we're so close, you should know that what I would like from you is for you to let me do my work without interference."

Superman had expected as much. With little fanfare and not about to argue in front of the local rubber neckers, he picked up Batman and flew them both to the Batcave, faster than the human eye could follow.

Two minutes later, back in the cave, Kal stood to the side as Batman—furious—changed his clothes, turning himself into Bruce Wayne; the real one, not the idiot society barfly.

"You know you can't keep doing this, Bruce. The JLA is worried about you. I'm worried about you." Kal expected to be told to mind his own business, go away, leave him alone, fuck off. Instead he got an honest answer.

Bruce turned around and looked Kal in the eyes, his anger shoved aside and replaced by defeat; something Kal never thought he'd see in his old friend. "All the training, everything I taught him, it didn't matter how good he was or how smart—none of it mattered."

"It was an accident. It was just an accident, Bruce."

"He was my son."

"And what happened was tragic, but it happened. It was a mistake and even Dick didn't blame Roy. If he didn't, you have no right to, either."

"_You_ have no right to say anything to me. You haven't lost…" That was unfair and Bruce knew it. Dick and Clark had been close friends.

"No, I haven't but I know this isn't what Dick would want and so do you."

"Dick is dead. He was seventeen—do you remember being that age? The dreams, all the things you wanted to do? The certainty you had forever ahead of you?" His voice wasn't angry, which surprised Kal. It was just sad; incredibly sad, thinking about everything Dick would miss and, by extension, the things Bruce would miss through him. "Roy took that away."

"He didn't…"

"Yes, he did."

"And Roy has lost almost as much—and you know that, too."

Yes, Bruce knew and didn't care, but Kal would keep at him until he'd finished the conversation. "The drugs? That's his choice."

"At first, yes it was, but now he's an addict."

"And Dick is a corpse."

Kal wasn't going to accept that sort of lazy and easy answer. "It was an accident and Roy was one of Dick's best and oldest friends. You could help—for Dick's sake, if not Roy's. You know as well as I do that Ollie won't be any use in this and the boy will listen to you, Bruce. You could probably save his life, like you know Dick would have wanted. If he _was_ here he'd probably ask you—if he didn't do it himself."

Bruce turned to walk up the stone stairs to the house. "And if he did ask me I'd help in a heartbeat. But that's the point, Kal; he isn't here to ask."

* * *

A month or so before Christmas Barbara pulled the things off what she called her 'present shelf', though it really grown to fill a whole closet. She'd gotten into the habit of starting her Christmas shopping right after the previous Christmas was over. She'd hit the January sales, hit the end of season sales, the President Day sales, the Labor Day sales and any other sale she'd stumble across so she'd be done with her shopping just when everyone else was starting theirs—which was why the present shelf was now the present closet. It was a beautiful thing and she was unbearably smug about it being done and the money she saved that way.

There was that cashmere scarf for her Dad, the matching gloves—butter soft leather lined with the same cashmere so his hands would stay warm this year. She had the electric train set she knew Annie's son wanted, the twenty dollar gift for the JLA grab bag (which she always thought was a weird thing, but there you go). She had that silk blouse for Dinah, the complete works of Shakespeare for Alfred; hand bound leather with vellum pages. Sure, she knew he already had a set, but this one was particularly beautiful and she knew he'd love it. There were more things—stuff for her neighbors, her co-workers over at the library, for her professors—lots of stuff.

Then she pulled out the small bag shoved way in the back from Victoria's Secret containing…damn. What was this one? She usually marked every box and bag but sometimes she'd forget and then she'd forget she'd even bought something for somebody and end up with two gifts for the same person. Damnit. Maybe it was something she could save for a birthday or something.

She opened the bag and felt the hairs prickling on the back of her neck, determined that she wouldn't cry, not again. She wouldn't.

It was the black bikini, the one you could hide in one hand, the one she was going to surprise Dick with along with plane tickets to that Caribbean resort she'd found out about. She'd thought they could go together either over Christmas break or maybe for spring vacation. They would have their own bungalow on a private beach; he'd be eighteen and they'd go away together as proof that they were old enough to do this and the hell with what anyone said. They could all get used to it, accept it or not as they chose and—frankly, my dear, she didn't give a damn. They were in love with one another.

She'd been out shopping with Dinah last January and seen it in the window, both of them giggling about who would wear something like that and then playfully arguing about who would look better in the thing. They'd ended up each daring the other to buy one, Dinah opting to get the thing in white, laughing that it was less obvious. The next week Dinah had told her all the dirty details when she'd gotten back from a pool date with Ollie—promising her it had worked wonders and Dick would have to be deaf, dumb, blind and a eunuch to not respond…and the word was he wasn't any of the above.

Yes, he'd been young, but then again—not really. He'd been just short of his sixteenth birthday when they first, shyly and slowly, connected, taking it step by slow step. They had dated secretly, seen a few movies or had dinner. Usually they'd just stay in at her apartment so no one would find out—he'd tell Bruce he had Titan's business or something so they could order in with rented movies and then, one evening they became lovers and no one knew. They would meet whenever they could without raising suspicion, knowing he was still technically jailbait and even if he wasn't, neither of them wanted to embarrass their families or cause problems. Batgirl and Robin being an item was one thing—and one that would be hashed out and dragged through the tabloids until it became impossible to cope with, but Commissioner Gordon's daughter and Bruce Wayne's 'son' were another matter entirely. Her father could be forced out of his job because of the political fallout plus she and Dick both knew his wardship with Bruce would be affected, too. The child services would have a field day with it and he could well end up being removed from the manor with Bruce facing repercussions for being a negligent parent. And that didn't even begin to address the reactions they'd face over the dinner table. No one would be happy about this and while she might be willing to deal with it herself, she wasn't willing to put Dick through it, so they had agreed to keep everything quiet until he was legal. Not even Bruce—or even harder to fool—Alfred knew, just thinking he still had that childhood crush and she indulged him a little.

She'd imagined a hundred times the look on his face when he opened the envelope with the tickets, the way he'd smile and just how happy he'd be with the trip and the idea she'd thought of it—just the two of them.

That was her plan. That was the idea. And he was so gentle with her; he was so sweet and so clearly adored her. She loved him and he flattered her by his open feelings. Sometimes she thought that since he was forced to stoicism so much of the time, he kept a private part of himself when he was with her to be the way he might have been if Bruce hadn't taught him to deny and hide his feelings. He'd do anything it took to get her laughing so hard her stomach would hurt, no matter what they were doing; at dinner or taking a walk or even when they were in bed together. Sometimes she wished he'd been allowed to live the life he'd been originally slated for in the circus, but then would selfishly be glad he was hers. She came to accept his being so unguarded and open with her as a secret gift he reserved just for her and she did whatever she could to make sure it was returned and that he remained unhurt.

She had tried so hard to never hurt him but he'd been the one who gotten hurt.

Tearless, she stuffed the bikini back in the bag. Her first impulse was to throw it out, get rid of it and never see it again but then she stopped herself and instead deliberately put it in the smallish cedar chest she kept on the floor of her walk-in. It was the place she put things she didn't want anything bad to happen to but didn't want left out where she'd see them; things like her mother's handmade sweaters and her old love letters, things she took out when she was in a nostalgic or maudlin mood. That was where she put things she'd consigned to the past.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Accident. One Year On. Part two/conclusion

Author: Simon

Characters: Bruce/Alfred/ the Bat Family

Rating: PG, I guess. Some language.

Summary: Sequel to Accident. One year after Dick was killed in a car accident

Warnings: none, really, a little language but not much

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. to Char for the legal stuff—any mistakes are all mine, not hers. And much thanks to Scott for beta—any mistakes are all mine and ones he probably told me to fix.

**Accident**

**One Year On. Conclusion**

Alfred answered the knock on the kitchen door, surprised to see young Master Roy standing there holding a cardboard box. He'd apologized a dozen times, sometimes in tears, sometimes with anger after the accident, but Master Bruce had refused to speak to the boy or even remain in the same room after nominally forgiving him the night in the ER. Alfred's thoughts went back to that awful morning, after calling a funeral home, choosing the casket and making the other arrangements. He and Bruce sat in this same kitchen over tea. Bruce had been quiet, both of them deeply grieving and in the initial shock when Alfred had said almost to himself, "It could have happened to anyone, skidding on ice like that."

"Roy was driving. It was his fault and Dick would be sleeping upstairs in his bed if…" He didn't bother finishing the sentence.

"And that young man will live with this for the rest of his life." He sipped the tea he didn't really want.

"So will we all."

In the year since the accident, Bruce's attitude had hardened and it was now to the point that he had trouble working with Green Arrow on JLA business. Several JLA members tried to talk to both of the men over the last few months, but to no effect. Finally several of the JLA members had met with Alfred, explaining the problem and asking if there was anything he could do. Try though he had, nothing had worked to change anything involving the master's attitude. Everyone hoped time would help but if it didn't, sometime would have to be done. The impasse was still in effect.

"Alfred?" The boy's voice brought him back. "I'm really sorry to bother you, but may I…? I was going to call first, but I wasn't sure, I mean, I wasn't sure you'd let me in."

"Of course, Master Roy. As far as I'm concerned, you're always welcomed here. I promise you that." Looking in question at the large box, Alfred nodded and stepped aside to allow him entry.

"This is, it's, I mean…I cleaned out his room over at the Tower and I thought you'd maybe want this." He put it on the counter. "I kind of figured Bruce wouldn't be here now, that he'd probably be at work or something—is it okay? I'll help you with this if you want and then go. I know he doesn't want me around or anything."

In fact Bruce was down in the cave at the moment, having called Lucius to inform him he wouldn't be in for the rest of the week. Lucius had understood. Alfred hurt for the youngster, his awkwardness was painful.

"You've just now cleaned out his room? But I'd have thought it would have been done long before this." This despite Dick's room upstairs was still exactly the same, Bruce forbidding anything being removed or even the discarded clothing picked up off the floor and furniture. It had become frozen in time at the moment Dick had died, regardless of Alfred's efforts to convince the master to be reasonable.

"No one wanted to do it but I decided it was time." He hesitated a moment then, "It was getting too weird, y'know? Every time I walked past his door to get to my room I half expected him to walk out or that I'd hear music coming through the wall or something." He took a shaky breath. "It was time."

"Indeed it was; rather past it, I would think." It was awkward and for once even Alfred seemed unsure what to do next. "Should I open this here or would it be best to take it straight upstairs, do you think?" He was half afraid of what might be inside; knowing no matter what it was, it would be difficult to see.

"I don't think it matters. There isn't anything all that special in there—it's just stuff."

Dick's stuff.

Internally bracing himself, Alfred opened the box. There were a few familiar tee shirts, the sweater Leslie had made him two years ago, some sweat pants and socks, the normal toiletries. He saw some CD's, a few videos and DVD's, his laptop, a handful of paperbacks, mostly escapist science fiction and a few assigned for school he remembered Dick having to report on. Yes, just basic things. At the bottom was a large manila envelope, opened at the top and filled with something bulky. "What's in here?"

"Letters he'd saved. I didn't read them or anything, but I figured…you know, I thought you'd like to keep them." Roy was scratching his face; it was almost as he didn't realize he was doing it.

Roy had probably read them but Alfred let it go. What possible difference could it make now? Alfred reached in and pulled out one or two, skimming the front pages and putting them back. "I can't say I'm all that surprised."

"I wasn't either. He never mentioned it, he never said anything at all about her, but, yeah—it made sense." Roy shrugged and wiped his nose.

Alfred picked up one of the letters again, reading more closely then gently putting it back with the rest. The Master probably knew about this; it would be like him to keep such things to himself.

"There wasn't much else in his room that was really his. I can bring over the bedding if you want it, but he didn't keep much stuff there, this was pretty much it."

"That won't be necessary, thank you. May I offer you anything? Tea? Perhaps you'd like some hot chocolate with it being so cold out this afternoon?"

"I'm good, thanks, and I need to get going." The boy seemed edgy, a little anxious to get away, and Alfred thought he could understand that after everything they'd been through the last year, though he remembered long past days when the Titans had dropped in, the laughter and splashing from one of the pools heard all over the house. In fact, his heart quite went out to the young man, much as it often had to Dick when one of his problems would weigh on him. About to leave, Roy flashed Alfred an unexpected smile.

"We were talking one night, me and Dick, and I asked him what the weirdest thing was that happened to him since he'd become Robin. You want to know what he told me?"

"Why, yes. I'd very much like to hear, if you please." This was out of the blue.

"He said he was in some restaurant in New York after some Titan thing a couple of years ago. He and Garth were just sitting at the table, waiting for Donna to get back from the bathroom and some girl, some fan came up to him and started gushing about how he was her favorite hero and all of that garbage." Roy smiled to himself. "He was always good with stuff like that. Anyway, she pulled up her skirt, right there at the table and pulls down her underwear—she wanted to show him a tattoo she had of him on her butt." He laughed; the mental picture was a bit odd, even for the hero business. "The she asked him to sign it in indelible ink so she could have his autograph traced over by a tattoo artist. He said Donna walked up about then and made him do it."

Alfred was smiling at the image. "I don't believe he ever mentioned that particular episode to me."

"Yeah, well, that was Dick, right?"

"Thank you, Master Roy. Truly; thank you." But the boy was already out the door.

* * *

Bruce had rejected the idea of a memorial service for Dick to mark the anniversary, seeing no point. What would it be—a celebration? Of what? A seventeen year old who didn't live to be eighteen? Of wasted potential? Of a young man who would never see manhood? A chance for his friends to share memories which would inevitably fade as they moved on, as they married, had families, developed careers, grew old?

The hell with it.

Bruce would remember Dick in his own way and in his own time. If the others wanted to do something they were free to go ahead, but he wouldn't be there. He had almost installed a memorial to Dick down in the cave but had thought better of it. His room was upstairs and if there was a section or case dedicated to him below the Manor—hell. How was he supposed to work with that staring him in the face? Better to keep things separate, contained. He shut down the computer. Trying to work tonight was a waste of time.

"Master Bruce, I was just about to call you. Dinner is going on the table, if you would be so good as to make yourself presentable."

The last think Bruce wanted was food, but it was easier to eat—or pretend to, than to argue with Alfred. He would not, however, go to his old place in the dining room. In the last year he'd gotten into the habit of sitting down with Alfred in the kitchen the way Dick often had. They would sit together, often not talking but each appreciating the companionship. Not tonight. Tonight he just wanted to be alone and if that was wallowing, then so what? Hell. It was just dinner.

Until he saw the two places already set in the kitchen, with a manila envelope beside his placemat. "What is this?"

"Master Roy was here a short while ago and brought this along with some of the contents of Master Dick's room at the Tower. I thought you would be interested in seeing the contents." Alfred placed his linen napkin in his lap, knowing full well that Bruce had likely monitored the boy's arrival and departure from below stairs. "I suspect he's having significant trouble adjusting."

"So are we all."

"I think we may be able to offer the young man some help, Master Bruce." Alfred ignored being ignored. "He was one of Master Dick's closest friends and he would wish us to do whatever we can to aid him."

Bruce knew Alfred wouldn't stop until he had his say. "What do you suggest?"

"I suspect Master Roy may be having a problem with some sort of substance. This afternoon he was displaying several of the classic symptoms. I further strongly suspect it may have either had its start after the accident or perhaps escalated at that time."

This was about the last thing Bruce wanted to deal with. In fact, it _was_ the last thing. Ollie was Roy's guardian; let him handle it.

"Master Dick would have done whatever was needed to help a friend. He'd have involved himself if he were here. In his absence, it's the least we can do, both for Master Roy and for Dick."

Bruce let out a deep breath. He knew Alfred too well; if he thought this was important, he wouldn't drop it. If need be, he'd deal with it himself and then Bruce would feel guilty, have to face Ollie and the rest, and…oh, hell. "What do you think the problem is? Specifically."

Alfred sipped his water. "I'm not certain, of course, but I suspect heroin, judging from his behavior this afternoon. Possibly cocaine, maybe both, maybe some other things."

"Um-hmm." That was all Alfred needed, he know it would be addressed. Bruce tapped the large envelope. "What is this?"

"Some personal letters Master Dick was saving."

Bruce resignedly looked inside, pulling out the small pile, all tied with a ribbon, the dates spanning about eighteen months—the last letter dated the week before the accident. They were addressed in woman's handwriting; neat, precise, familiar and he recognized it immediately.

"Did you know about this, Alfred? Did he say anything to you about her?"

"No, he didn't confide in me about the young lady. I'm not surprised they were involved of course, but I didn't actually know. Did you?"

Bruce shook his head; he wasn't surprised, either. The two of them had been attracted to one another since they'd met, ages notwithstanding and it would have been like Dick to keep his personal life to himself, especially under the circumstances. Well, there was nothing to be done now, other than to maybe say something to her, express his sympathy for her loss or something along those lines. Though, frankly, he didn't see much point now. It was over and done with and he'd heard that she was seeing someone at her work so she'd evidently moved on.

The two of them finished eating in silence, Bruce skimming over the letters instead of eating, pleased for Dick he'd had this much, at least, before he'd been killed.

* * *

A couple hours later he fell out of the sky at Titans Tower, let himself in without triggering any of the alarms and thought that they really should bump up their security. This wouldn't have happened if Dick were here to oversee the place. Roy was sleeping or passed out on the unmade bed in his room when Batman found him. He kicked the boy's bare foot, getting a grunt for his trouble.

Another kick, another grunt. "Wake up."

"Fuck off."

He turned on the too bright over-head. "Get up."

The Bat voice penetrated enough to force a reaction, bleary though it was. "What do you want? I've already told you I'm sorry. I know it's my fault and you know it's my fault and I know you know. What, you want to lecture me again?"

Batman didn't bother answering, just started to methodically go through the various drawers and closets, the pockets of clothing and the spaces behind books and keepsakes. He found three stashes of what he assumed was heroin, a bag of coke along with a baggie half full of marijuana along with the different paraphernalia to get himself high. He flushed the drugs and papers, smashed the rest; Roy knowing better than to try to stop him. The boy sat up in his bed, watching what was happening with growing comprehension.

"I'm taking you to Hazleton. Get dressed."

"Fuck off."

Batman backhanded him hard enough to slap him back down. He rolled with the movement, landing awkwardly and unsteadily on his feet on the other side of the bed, a little confused, still a little high from earlier that evening. "You can't make me go anywhere I don't want to go. Ollie's my guardian, not you, and he's fine with me the way I am."

"Last I heard he'd thrown you out." Batman gave him the smile that always frightened criminals. "Shall we call him?" He threw a pair of jeans and a shirt across the bed; Roy pulled them on, his eyes on the man in front of him.

"Why the fuck…? Because Dick would have done this or some shit like that? What—did Alfred or someone ask you to come here? Dick's dead; he doesn't care about me. He doesn't care about anything."

He didn't bother answering, just took the boy's arm, half twisted behind his back, and walked him out through the lower entrance where the others wouldn't see until someone checked the tapes later. Alfred was waiting for them at the airport, the small Wayne jet fueled and waiting along with the pilot. Bruce was in civilian clothes by then and Roy was starting to hurt for a fix.

Bruce ignored the shakes and the pleading during the flight. When they landed, they were met by a hired ambulance. Bruce handed over the already completed paperwork to check him into the clinic with Oliver Queen's signature in place.

Bruce spoke to him for a minute before turning him over to the attendants and going back to Gotham for his usual morning meetings at Waynecorp. "You will stay here and you will listen to what they have to say to you. You will get clean and you will stay that way."

"Go screw yourself."

"You owe that much to Dick and if that's a problem for you, I'd be happy to see you busted for selling with a possible added charge of Involuntary Manslaughter thrown in for good measure, along with an announcement to the press about your current misadventures, _'Speedy'_. Your choice."

"How long?" Batman knew his identity. Of course he knew; he and Ollie were in the League together and he was the Bat. Great, something else to know.

"That's up to you, isn't it?" He was half across the room before turning back. "Tonight would have been the start of Dick's Christmas break. Last year we had plans to leave for Innsbruck two days after the accident; he didn't get a chance to do that or to do a lot of things you're throwing away. I'm giving you a second chance because—you're right, you were his friend and he would have done it for you if he were here. You want to kill yourself, that's your business, I've thrown you a rope, either use it to help yourself or I'll hang you with it. Your choice."

* * *

The usual large Christmas tree, which always decorated the main entranceway, was forgotten this year along with the wreaths on the doors and the evergreen swags on the stair railings and balconies. There would be no Christmas parties this year and people would just have to understand and go somewhere else for their free dinners. Alfred had insisted on putting up the small family tree in the study, the one Dick always helped with, laughing, enjoying being part of a family again after the loss of his parents. This year Alfred set it up by himself while some of the Christmas CD's played in the background. Bruce refused to even look at the thing when it was finished. There were the Wayne family ornaments, the ones Bruce's grandparents and parents had collected in their travels around the world along with the significantly less expensive ones they'd inherited from the Grayson's. Dick's family had managed to collect a number of glass and papier-mâché acrobats and circus performers over the years along with clowns and a ringmaster in top hat and tails. Dick had always placed them himself.

Tomorrow was Christmas morning and it would be bad for both men. Alfred sat by the fire, sipping his second brandy and wondering what, if anything, he could do to mitigate the next morning.

Two hours later he was ready with his idea and waiting for Batman to return to the cave so that he could tell him what was going on. He wouldn't ask. This time he would return to being the Master's father figure and he could jolly well listen.

He sat in the leather chair by the fire and in full view of the tree, waiting with his third glass of brandy for the evening. That was something else that would change, after tonight the brandy and the wine would go back in the cellar where they belonged.

It was well after midnight when the clock was pushed aside from the other side; Bruce was back. Alfred had been half dozing but was alert a second later when the Master was in the room. It wasn't uncommon to have Alfred waiting up for him to make sure everything was all right. Normally he'd ask if there were any problems, he'd be assured everything was fine and no, he wasn't needed and would go on to bed.

"You're still up? Get some rest, Alfred—I'll see you in the morning."

"Thank you, no."

"Excuse me?"

"This has gone on quite long enough and you're to sit and listen to me, if you don't mind; and if you do mind you shall sit and listen to me anyway."

Bruce knew what was coming: a lecture about how this wasn't the way Dick would want things to be and if Bruce really wanted to honor his memory he'd move on and accept what happened as the accident it was. Furthermore, Dick would tell him to get his act together, believe that, being orphaned aside, he'd had a good life, was happy with the things he'd accomplished both personally and professionally. Okay, yes, being killed at seventeen really sucked, but at least he'd had friends who cared about him and whom he loved right back Plus, he had some amazing things to his credit, had been places most people dreamed about and he'd even been in love—so it could have been a lot worse.

Bruce had heard it all from too many people to listen to it again. Leslie, Clark, the entire JLA, Lucius—they'd all given him the same talk. He wasn't interested in it again, but with Alfred he didn't have a choice. The bitch of the thing was that he knew it was all true and that his friends were right. It didn't matter; he had to do this in his own time or not at all.

Alfred saw most of this go flicker across Bruce's face. "I don't even have to tell you, do I?"

"Not really, no." He sat down on the end of the couch, tired and knowing Alfred was right. Dick wouldn't have put up with this and certainly wouldn't have wanted it. And, since Bruce was being honest with himself, he'd known this for months now.

"You know what he would have said, don't you?"

Bruce nodded and heard, imagined Dick's voice in his head, as he'd been doing more and more lately. 'C'mon, Bruce, you've had a year to get it together. I know you loved me and you know that I loved you and everybody else, but enough is enough. Okay, I'm dead and that's crappy for all of us—especially me—but it happened. You're not going to forget me, we both know that, but I'm dead and you're not. You have stuff to do, Alfred needs you, so do Gotham and the JLA. There's work to be done and you're the only one who can do it, so get your head out of your butt and snap out of it, will you?'

A small smile almost made it to Bruce's lips while he played out the lecture in his head. He could hear Dick's voice almost as if he was sitting beside him, the way he used to talk about whatever was on his mind, forcing Bruce to listen and engage.

'C'mon, I didn't have it that bad, did I? I had you and Alfred after my parents were killed; I had the Titans, Clark was a personal friend—you have any idea how cool that was? I was one of People's sexiest men of the year when I was like sixteen—those pictures really were pretty hot, weren't they? And you know what I had with Barbara. Damn, she was like the icing and the whipped cream and the cherry on top of the rest of the cake, y'know? I really loved her, okay? Maybe it would have gotten better, maybe it would have imploded, but it was incredible while it was happening.'

Bruce watched the fire for a couple of minutes, Alfred sitting nearby, knowing he was coming to a decision and would only do so when he was ready.

'I did a lot, Bruce. I really did. Sure, yeah, there was a lot I never got to, but the stuff I did? It was amazing, wasn't it? I spent almost nine years traveling with a headlining circus act, I was one three people in the world to turn a quad, I was Robin and I bested some of the worst criminals on the planet. Hell, I even had personal the respect of the Justice League when I was twelve—how many people can say that, huh? Yeah, there was stuff I wish…I really would have liked kids—I think I'd have been a really good father and I'd have liked to see where I was and what I was when I was thirty or forty but we don't all get what we want, do we?'

Bruce shook his head slightly in agreement.

'But I did all right. And if you hadn't been there when my parents were killed, if you hadn't taken me in...Shit, you made the difference, Bruce. I was so angry then. I had all this anger and I had no idea what to do with it, but you directed it so I didn't end up in jail or something. I think I might have if it wasn't for you, y'know. I think I would have turned to the dark side of the force instead of becoming a professional boy scout like I did. That was you who made that difference, you and Alfred—but I think you both know that, don't you?'

Bruce gave the smallest of nods.

'So that's it. You've had a year and that's enough. I wish I'd had more time, but…look, _you_ have the time so frigging use it. Do the stuff I can't. Do everything, okay? But don't just do it for me; do it because you're alive and you can and you want to because tomorrow it could be you hitting the damn tree.

Bruce knew Dick was right, he'd known it for months now. The time he'd had, not nearly enough though it was, had been like a full life for any three average people. He should have had more—decades more, but that wasn't in the cards and that was…tragic, but what he'd had was damn good. And the difference he'd made in their lives, even in the too few years he'd been with them, was beyond words.

'Lighten up, Bruce, will you? I'm dead and you're not. Suck it up and deal. Jeez, what do I have to do, haunt you?' He could see the smile, almost hear the laugh at the end.

Dick was right. His friends were right, and so was Alfred. He'd known it for a while, but you do things when you're ready, right?

"Master Bruce?"

"I want Dick's room left unused, but perhaps you could change the sheets in the morning, if it's all right with you."

Though Alfred gave no sign, he realized the first corner on the road back had been turned. "Yes, sir, I'll get to it first thing after breakfast."

2/11/06

12


End file.
